


Shirt

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 22:03:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19159858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: Mini fic prompt: Mulder and Scully end up in a downpour and Scully's blouse is see-through





	Shirt

The sky unleashes its burden as soon as they open the car doors. In the less than a minute, and before they reach the doors to the building, they are drenched. In the lobby, Scully palms the droplets off her cheeks and fingers the sodden strands of hair from her forehead. In the air-conditioned cool, the familiar frizz begins already and he tucks his smile into his own hands as he shakes off the rain.

“I don’t have a jacket,” she says. Her voice is stiff.

“It’s not that cold,” he says, wiping the excess moisture from his shirt. “Let’s see if we can find the team.” She’s shivering, he notices, arms folded around her. He’s a jerk. She’s always cold.

“It’s not the cold,” she says, pulling the damp blouse from her midriff. It’s silk and the rain has left it stuck to her body. Stuck like clingwrap. It’s cream silk and the rain has left it translucent. Translucent like clingwrap. Oh. OH.

“Shit,” he says, seeing her predicament. There are a dozen law-enforcement officers waiting for them inside. She’s providing the forensic report. “Maybe I can do your part,” he says, helping her pull the shirt away from her body. The lace of her bra is imprinted on the fabric and her nipples are dark and not-so-mysterious.

She bats his hands away. “You’re going to stand in front of the team and deliver a report and answer questions on how the victims display unrelated pervasive idiopathic symptoms of conditions with unknown etiology or underlying biology?” She blows air through her nostrils and looks directly at him. “They already think we’re butting in on their investigation and you know how our ‘spooky’ reputation precedes us. Let’s not indulge those who already think of us as weird, Mulder. I’ll be fine. We’re all professionals here.”

He looks at her, frame outlined under the see-through shirt. Pants stuck to her slim legs, feet tucked into killer heels. Her hair is stringy, coiling into those curls she tries desperately to control. Make-up washed away, golden freckles glimmer over her skin like constellations, more and more appearing every time he looks. She looks like she did in Bellefleur, dancing in the rainy dark with him; she looks she did when he fell in love with her. He can’t let his reputation damage her. He didn’t want it back then. He doesn’t want it now. He makes his decision.

The men are standing in tight groups, moustaches and beards, tattoos poking from cuffs, chest and ear and nose hair in various shades of grey; thick waists, heavy boots, hundreds years of experience collectively. Most of those years collected without having to defer to female agents.

There’s a tremor of throaty noise as they walk in the room. Mulder goes to finger his tie knot, but remembers. He shivers, aware of the frosty air-conditioning and even frostier reception. Scully’s heels clip on the floorboards. The men are divided: half fall silent, the other half cough into their fists.

“Thank you for waiting, gentlemen,” Scully begins and Mulder swears she’s standing taller, straighter, prouder. God, he loves this woman. Standing in front of this grizzled crowd, giving her professional medical opinion, wearing his pale blue dress shirt tucked into her black pants.


End file.
